


claw my way out

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 10:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: An SOS at three am rarely means anything good.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have been trying to write this fic FOREVER and I don't know that I really managed it as well as I wanted to. But my girl JD needed a distraction tonight and so, ta-da!
> 
> I'm so far behind on comment replies, it's embarrassing. I'm so sorry.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Skye’s turned into a pretty heavy sleeper lately—pure exhaustion, not to mention actually having somewhere _safe_ to crash, will do that to a girl—but even she can’t sleep through the sudden _boom_ that shakes the Bus at three in the morning.

“Fuck!” She rolls out of bed and stumbles from her bunk. Between the rude awakening and the way the floor’s still shaking, she’s off balance, but she makes it across to the briefing room in one piece. “What happened?”

“Sorry to wake you,” Ward says—not particularly sincerely, but not sarcastically, either. It’s like he meant it to be a jab at her sleeping habits (he makes those _all the time_ ) but forgot to inflect. Whatever’s going on, it must be bad; he’s practically vibrating in place.

(He’s also only wearing sweatpants, and the whole abs situation he’s got going on is…really distracting.)

“What exploded?” Crawford demands. She’s trying to walk and put her jeans on at the same time, so she kind of half-hops, half-staggers into the room. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Nothing exploded,” Coulson says soothingly as he comes through the other door. He’s fully dressed—in a suit, natch—and doesn’t look worried at all. “What you heard was the Bus being punched to full speed. Like a quinjet, it’s capable of Mach 2—but unlike a quinjet, it’s not really built for it. We try to save top speed for emergencies.”

“So what’s the emergency?” Skye asks. “Are aliens invading again? Please tell me aliens aren’t invading again.”

“They might be,” Ward says grimly.

Coulson pats him sympathetically on the shoulder—which is almost funny, considering how he has to reach up to do it. “I’m sure aliens aren’t invading. The truth is, we’re not sure what’s happening.”

“I got an SOS from my SO,” Ward explains, tapping his fist against the edge of the holocom. “No details, just a request for immediate extraction.”

“Should I get the medkit?” Crawford asks, springing to attention.

Ward shakes his head. “I don’t—”

He stops. The Bus is slowing down, and they all recognize the sound of the thrusters locking into vertical landing mode. Wherever Ward’s SO called them to, they’ve arrived.

Skye, Coulson, and Crawford all brace themselves for landing; Ward takes off across the lounge, heading for the stairs.

“Where’s Fitz?” Skye asks—both because she wants to know and because she needs to distract herself from the unsettling sensation that is the Bus sinking straight down. “Don’t tell me he slept through all this.”

“No,” Coulson says, “I woke him up and sent him to Avionics to monitor the Bus’ engines while we punched it. We should be fine, but…better safe than sorry.”

The Bus settles down with barely a bump, and Coulson activates the intercom.

“Fitz?” he asks. “Everything looking good down there?”

“Yes, sir,” is Fitz’s prompt answer. “She handled it just fine!”

At that, Skye takes a second to sneak back to her bunk and pull some real clothes on—she’s basically Ward’s _protégé_ , even if he won’t admit it, and she doesn’t wanna meet his mentor in her pajamas. She dresses as fast as she can, but May, Fitz, and Ward and the man who must be his SO still beat her back to the briefing room.

“—and this is Skye,” Ward says as she enters, giving her a disapproving frown. He’s probably just embarrassed that he’s the only one not fully dressed; even May’s rocking her catsuit…uniform…thing.

“John Garrett,” Ward’s unsmiling—and apparently unharmed—SO says, giving her a hearty handshake. “Nice to meet you. Wish it were better circumstances.”

“Uh, yeah,” Skye says. She takes a subtle scan of the room, wondering if she missed the part where the circumstances got explained, but Fitz and Crawford look just as confused as she feels. “Nice to meet you, too. And just out of curiosity, these circumstances…?”

“Right.” Garrett sighs heavily and looks to the holocom. “I’m no good with these damn things, but I’ve got a thumb drive full of shit you oughta see. Phil?”

“Sure,” Coulson says, accepting the thumb drive. “Just a sec.”

Skye doesn’t pay any attention to Coulson messing with the holocom; instead, she watches Garrett and Ward. Ward’s hovering close to Garrett like some oversized, half-dressed mother hen, while Garrett looks grimly exhausted.

And worried.

“Son,” he says to Ward, gripping his arm. “You need to brace yourself for this.”

“Sir?” Ward asks, eyebrows scrunching. “What do you mean?” He gives Garrett a quick once-over. “Are you _sure_ you’re not—?”

“I’m fine,” Garrett interrupts. “But I need you to keep your cool, you hear me? We’ll fix this.”

“Fix wh—?”

A video flickers to life on the holocom’s screen, distracting all of them.

Skye swallows.

It’s a woman, curled up in the corner of a brightly lit white room. The floor is tile stained with what looks worryingly like blood, and the woman herself is thin and bruised and cradling what might be a broken arm. There’s blood crusted all along the right side of her face and the arm she’s not hugging to her stomach is flopped beside her, revealing an unsettling scar that stretches nearly from wrist to elbow.

Skye’s heart aches for her, this battered and broken-looking woman, but she doesn’t have long to dwell on the video. Even as someone moves into frame to drag the poor woman out of her corner, Garrett’s worried, “Grant?” draws her attention to Ward.

He’s stock-still and stark white, staring at the video with a face she can’t even begin to read.

“J—” Barely a syllable in, he has to stop and clear his throat. “Is this—?”

“It’s recent,” Garrett says softly. “Barely a week old, according to my contacts. She’s alive, son.”

Ward’s jaw works silently. “Where?”

“Lanciano, Italy.”

Garrett directs the answer to May, who looks to Coulson, who nods. Skye’s missing some important pieces here, but May and Coulson, at least, obviously know what’s up.

“Wheels up in five,” May says. She touches Ward’s elbow as she passes him, and it puts a weird kind of lump in Skye’s throat. She’s never seen May touch Ward outside of sparring. May hardly ever touches _anyone_.

Ward—still staring at the screen—makes a little noise like the breath’s been punched out of him, and Skye turns her attention back to the video to find the woman’s being strapped into…something. Some weird and _extra_ scary looking restraining…thing.

There’s no sound on the video, but the woman’s obviously screaming. And no wonder, if that arm of hers is as broken as it looks.

“Son,” Garrett starts—and then Ward’s gone, slamming out of the briefing room without a word. If Skye knows him at _all_ , he’s heading for his punching bag; she wishes the poor thing luck.

“Give him a minute,” Coulson advises when Garrett starts to follow.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah. You’re right.”

There’s a long, tense moment of silence. The video is over; a list of files sits innocently on the screen, waiting for the next selection to be made.

“Um, I have questions,” Crawford says finally.

“ _Lots_ of questions,” Skye agrees, beyond grateful not to be the one to bring it up.

Fitz, pale and sickly-looking, slowly shakes his head. “That was Simmons.”

“What?” Crawford’s voice actually squeaks. “No way. That’s not—how is that possible?”

Okay, so apparently _Skye’s_ the only one out of the loop here. “Who’s Simmons?”

Coulson and Garrett exchange a long look.

“Mind if we sit down for this?” Garrett asks. “I’m beat.”

“Yeah,” Coulson says, pushing away from the holocom. “Let’s take this to the lounge.”

Moving to the lounge only takes a few seconds—it _is_ right outside the briefing room, after all—but it’s still nearly enough to drive Skye crazy. There are way too many questions and not _nearly_ enough answers on offer here.

Fortunately for her sanity, Coulson jumps right in once they’re settled.

“The woman in that video,” he says, “is Jemma Simmons-Ward. Ward’s wife.”

Skye chokes on her own breath. “Ward’s _wife_?! He’s _married_?”

“Until twelve hours ago, I’d have told you he was widower.” Garrett slumps back in his seat. “We buried Jemma—or at least a body that looked a hell of a lot like her—last year.”

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “I had no idea.”

Why didn’t anyone _tell_ her? She makes fun of Ward _all the time_ for being a total robot and not noticing women hitting on him, but of _course_ he wouldn’t wanna notice when he’s _grieving his dead wife_. They’ve been a team for _months_ and she’s probably spent half her free time jumping up and down on his sore spots!

God. Poor Ward.

At least Crawford looks just as shocked as she feels, although…why? It sounded for a second like she knew who this Simmons person was. Although Fitz did say _Simmons_ , so maybe they knew her pre-Ward marrying?

“Simmons was—is—a SHIELD scientist,” Fitz says quietly. He’s hunched over, elbows on his knees and head cradled in his hands. “We went through the Academy together. Top of our class. Rivals.”

Yep. That explains it.

“She’s famous,” Crawford offers, rubbing Fitz’s back. “Everyone at the Academy told stories about her.” She grimaces. “Because of how smart she was and because of…what happened.”

“What?” Skye looks from one uncomfortable face to another, the sick feeling in her stomach getting worse with every second. “What happened?”

“Jemma was in high demand,” Garrett says with a fond—if weak—smile. “Most SHIELD brains either pick a base and settle in or join teams like this one, but Jemma stayed on the move. She’d be at the Hub one week, the Sandbox the next, and the Treehouse the week after that. Said she liked the change in scenery; I always thought it just helped her keep her mind off Grant while he was away on ops.”

Skye knows that feeling. It’s harder to miss someone—or some _thing_ —when you don’t have roots. When there’s no designated empty space where what you’re missing is supposed to be. She feels a weird sense of kinship with Ward’s apparently not dead wife, which only makes the memory of the video that much worse.

“Anyway.” Garrett blows out a breath. “Early last year, Jemma’s transport was attacked mid-trip. Quinjet was shot right outta the sky halfway to the Sandbox. When the rescue team arrived, Jemma was missing and the guards and pilot were dead.”

As if to punctuate that ominous statement, the Bus _booms_ and shakes again. Considering Jemma’s state in that video, Skye’s glad—and unsurprised—that May’s punching it again, but it sure makes for a bumpy ride.

“Grant was deep cover at the time,” Garrett continues, barely blinking at the Bus’ shaking. “And I mean _deep_. SHIELD initiated contact, of course, but it took a few days to connect—and we couldn’t afford to wait for him. We got a lead on the kidnappers within hours. I led the rescue team myself.”

He stops, looking away to the hallway that leads to the stairs.

“Grant’s like a son to me,” he says heavily. “Always has been. Far as I was concerned, that girl was my daughter-in-law, and I was gonna bring her home, come hell or high water.” He laughs humorlessly. “Didn’t work out that way.”

Silence draws out when Garrett doesn’t continue; after a few seconds, Coulson takes over.

“I wasn’t there,” he says, “but I’ve read the report. It looked like what happened was the kidnappers, when they realized they were cornered, decided to cut their losses. They killed Simmons and fled.”

“Bastards decided if they couldn’t have her, nobody could,” Garrett growls. “They beat her all to hell first—probably trying to get intel out of her—and then shot her in the head before we could reach her.”

“But…she’s not dead,” Crawford says, finally bringing the room’s elephant to center stage. “I mean, if that was really her…?”

“It was,” Fitz insists.

“I can’t explain it.” Garrett spreads his hands. “I carried Jemma’s body out of that base myself. I looked Grant in the eye and told him she was dead. Hell, I picked out her damn coffin when Grant couldn’t. But damn if that didn’t look like her in that footage.”

“Is it…” Skye struggles for a second to find words, feeling weirdly awkward about the whole thing. “I mean, couldn’t it be from when she was kidnapped? Why do you think it’s recent?”

“Couple of reasons,” Garrett says. “For one thing, those kidnappers only had her a few hours. They didn’t have enough time to do that kinda damage. For another, the contact who tipped me off to this is one I trust. He wouldn’t have sent me on a wild goose chase. He says there’s something to this, there is.”

“About that,” Coulson says, sitting forward. “How much intel did this contact of yours give you? Do you know what we’re walking into? What kind of security, what—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Skye nearly jumps out of her skin at Ward’s voice, which comes—totally unexpectedly—from behind her. She twists to find him there, hands braced against the little half-wall behind the couch, knuckles red and skin shining with sweat. She doesn’t know how long he’s been there, but it doesn’t look like working out helped him calm down any.

“Son,” Garrett says, standing. “You know—”

“It _doesn’t matter_ ,” Ward bites out. “I don’t care how many there are or how well-armed they might be. You get me to the people who have my wife and I will kill. them. all.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Grant doesn’t know how many people he kills on his way through the base. He doesn’t note their faces, doesn’t bother to translate any of the things they shout at him. He gets grazed by a bullet and barely feels it, takes a knife to the thigh and forgets it in three steps.

All that matters is getting to Jemma.

There’s chatter on the comms: Garrett and Coulson bantering, Skye guiding them via the security cameras she hacked, May offering a terse report every time Coulson asks for one. Grant ignores it all. They identified Jemma’s cell and traced out a path to it before storming the base; he knows exactly where he’s going.

And when he gets there…

She’s in the corner, like she was in that fucking video, curled up into a tight little ball. She’s pale and thin, like a ghost slowly fading out of existence, and the way she whimpers when he slams the door open puts him in mind of a wounded animal.

But she’s _alive_. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Jemma!” He barely remembers to clear the room—empty, except for her—before sprinting across it. “Baby, can you hear me?”

Falling to his knees beside her reminds him of the wound in his thigh (because ouch), but he forgets it again just as fast when she opens her eyes. They’re hazy and bloodshot, her pupils blown wide with some kind of drug, but they lock onto him at once.

“Grant,” she croaks, and uncurls herself just far enough to fall into his arms.

“I’ve got you, Jem, I’ve got you.” God, she’s so fucking _thin_. She’s always been tiny, especially next to him, but now she’s just…fragile. Like he could break her with a glance, let alone holding her this tight. “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?”

She gives a dry little sob, one hand clenching in his tac vest. Tears burn at his eyes; he presses his lips to her hair and gives himself a second—just a second—to breathe her in, to just _breathe_ for the first time since John told him she was dead.

She’s alive. He’s got her. He’ll find out how HYDRA managed to fool them (because of course this is HYDRA; John didn’t say it but Grant _heard_ it, saw it written in every line on John’s face when he said _We’ll fix this_ ) and he’ll kill all of them, too, just like he’s killed everyone in this fucking base, except he’ll take his fucking time—

Jemma’s shaking in his arms. Thoughts of revenge can wait.

“I got you, baby. I’m gonna pick you up now, okay? It might hurt, but I’ll be careful.”

“Grant,” she says again. Her voice is barely a whisper—wrecked from screaming, if he’s any judge. She’s probably dehydrated, too; he doesn’t exactly see any water fountains around here.

Fuck.

He can’t pick her up yet. He has to take another second first, work through all this, through the sudden surge of rage and guilt.

She’s been here for more than a year, and he never had any idea. All the nights he’s spent tossing and turning, imagining her death, thinking of her faith in him and picturing her mouthing off to her captors—all those nightmares, so vivid they could be memories, of her defiantly telling her kidnappers that her husband would save her and kill them all, only for her to realize in her last moments that he _wouldn’t_ , that he’d let her down—

He _did_ let her down. Just because she’s alive doesn’t make it any less true.

But now he has the chance to make it up to her.

“I’m sorry,” he says—into her hair, because he can’t bear to tip her chin up and look her in the eye. “I’m so sorry.”

Jemma only cuddles closer. He wonders if she really knows it’s him, if she’s present enough to actually comprehend the situation, or if she’s just responding to the first kind touch she’s experienced in god knows how long.

The possibility infuriates him.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

It should be a struggle, standing and lifting her into his arms at the same time—especially when he’s juggling his rifle, too—but it’s not. His heart aches with how light she is.

“I’ve got Jemma,” he says, belatedly remembering the team. “We’re coming out.”

“You’ve got a clear path,” Skye tells him. Her tone is a little wobbly; he might’ve scarred her for life, cutting through all the guards like that. “Crawford’s ready with the medkit.”

“Good,” he says, and turns to the door. Jemma’s forehead is cold against his neck. “Hold tight to me, baby. We’ll be out of here in a second.”


End file.
